Having read a few reviews beforehand, I expected to be disappointed by Terminator Genisys, which is currently holding a dismal 27% fresh rating at Rotten Tomatoes. However the Rotten Tomatoes aggregate score for Age of Ultronis currently 74%, and that film was a narrative disaster, so let’s perhaps not hold up professional reviews as indicative of a film’s worth.

I’m going to disagree with just about everyone (including my personal favorite geek news site, The Mary Sue) and tell you that it is absolutely great and a worthy addition to the franchise. I even rewatched the original Terminator last night to make sure that I wouldn’t be approaching Genisys mired in rose-colored nostalgia.

Largely, people’s enjoyment of the film seems to be directly proportional to their ability to accept Emilia Clarke in the role of Sarah Connor. I fell in love with her as Sarah from the moment I first heard her say, “Come with me if you want to live” in the trailer, so this was absolutely not an issue for me. Many complaints about Clarke seem to hinge on the fact that she is such a petite woman, but let us please not forget that despite the fact that Linda Hamilton was undeniably ripped in T2, she was also a petite woman. Beyond that, Sarah Connor is not and never has been a character who relies on physical strength. She survives through her wits and her weapons expertise; physical fitness, although important to her, was always secondary. There’s no need for her to be physically imposing because she’s not going hand-to-hand with a Terminator (something a human could never hope to do anyway).

The thinly veiled body shaming isn’t just sexist; it’s indicative of a lack of understanding of the character.

Sarah doesn’t have time for your sexism.

All of that said, I’m not writing this to tell you why other people didn’t care for Terminator Genisys. I’m writing this to tell you why I loved this film. Spoiler alert: It’s because of two of the things nearest and dearest to my heart—explosions and feminism. Continue reading →

Many years ago, I was in a terrible car accident. I had a lot of serious injuries, but the most severe was my left arm. Torn to ribbons, there was barely enough flesh left for the doctors to staple it back together. I was lucky enough to survive with no loss of function, but it was nonetheless life altering.

Short of wearing long sleeves for the rest of my life, there is no hiding the scars, and people notice. Most are too polite to say anything, but I see their revulsion and curiosity nonetheless. A few months after the accident, however, I started experiencing a strange phenomenon among those who can’t contain their curiosity.

People ask me if my scars are art.

They ask me this because they cannot conceive of an event so terrible and traumatic that it could leave such ruin in its wake. They ask me this because they think my disfigurement must be something intentional that I willingly agreed to.

People ask me if my scars are art.

They ask me this because they don’t want to imagine someone experiencing so much pain and suffering without having any control.

People ask me if my scars are art, and it has become the prevailing metaphor of my life because when I show them my real scars and not simply the superficial ones, they do not believe they are real.

I am a survivor of sexual violence and assault, and like so many other women, when I openly speak about my experiences, I am met with disbelief and blame.

People tell me that my scars are fiction because they don’t want to imagine someone experiencing so much pain and suffering without having any control. They tell me this because they think it must be something intentional that I willingly agreed to.

But I am here. I am real. All of me is real, inside and out. I may not have chosen any of this, but I am not going to hide it because I refuse to feel ashamed—of my body or my life.

Let me explain why I love this so much by telling you about my favorite moment in Orange Is the New Black. I really enjoy the show, but I find a lot of the nudity/sex to be gratuitous and over the top, especially in the first season—not because it exists but because of how it is handled and portrayed. However, the show is not always gratuitous and (perhaps ironically) it contains one of the most beautiful and sensitively handled nude scenes in all of television.

The first time we see Sophia (Laverne Cox) nude, she’s alone in the bathroom, and before leaving she gives herself a quick look-over in the mirror. It’s the same thing every woman alive has done a thousand times before, which creates this incredibly moving and humanizing moment. Obviously, a lot of attention in the show is paid to the fact that Sophia is trans*, and it does an excellent job of addressing the struggle and prejudices she has to face, but in this one vulnerable moment when she is alone, we don’t see “Sophia the trans* woman.” We see Sophia the woman. We see that she is just like any other woman—every other woman—regardless of sex assigned at birth. We see that she is “othered” by the people around her, not by anything inherent in herself because, when stripped of politics and prejudices and pretenses, she is nothing other than a normal woman.

The scene itself is probably no more than 10 seconds long, but it’s so powerful that it’s stuck with me more than anything else from the show.

And so I love this. I love seeing Laverne not as a character but as herself, bravely showing the world that she is confident in her womanhood. She has ownership of her body and her identity, and she is unashamed. What a beautiful thing that is.

First things first: Before we can discuss the gender binary, we’ve got to define what the words gender and sex mean. This one’s pretty easy. Your sex is what equipment you’ve got in your trousers. You can be one of three things: biologically male, biologically female, or biologically intersex (formerly called hermaphrodites, but that’s a misnomer because they are largely sterile). Your gender is the amount of “masculinity” and “femininity” you identify with/express. It’s your personal identity rather than your physical biology.

Make sense? Great! Let’s move on.

The most basic definition of the gender binary is a cultural belief that your physical sex (the equipment in your trousers) should determine the way you express your gender (how “manly” or “girly” you behave).

It hinges on the presuppositions that things are either masculine or feminine in nature, and therefore those things are the territory of only men or only women. This ranges from fairly innocuous gender assignments, such as “pink is for girls and blue is for boys,” to blatantly destructive beliefs, such as “girls aren’t good at math and science.”

This type of thinking is really restrictive and damaging to men and women alike! I want to destroy the gender binary!

Does this mean I want to destroy the notions of “masculine” and “feminine”? No! Not at all! It means I want to fundamentally change the way we approach the concept of gender.

The problem is that gender is not a binary at all. Gender is a spectrum.

I, for example, love grungy flannel and power tools. These are things that Western society defines as masculine. And that’s okay! I don’t mind being a little masculine! I also really love shoujo anime and baking. These are things that Western society defines as feminine. And that’s okay! I also don’t mind being a little feminine! I consider myself to be in many ways fairly gender neutral, but if I were to tally things up, I do fall more toward the “feminine” end of the spectrum.

The problem is that when your culture adheres to a gender binary, women who are closer to the masculine end of the spectrum are considered somehow lesser than overtly feminine women, and men who are closer to the feminine end of the spectrum are considered somehow lesser than overtly masculine men. And that’s not okay.

Socially, the gender binary is just as damaging to men as it is to women. Perhaps even more so because masculine women (to a point) have been accepted as “tomboys” for decades, but effeminate men still have to struggle to find a place for themselves.

Understand that fighting the gender binary is not a “war on masculinity.” It’s a war on domineering jerks.

Feminists don’t care if you want to grow a beard and wear a plaid flannel sweatshirt every day. If that’s how you feel comfortable expressing yourself, good for you! We care when you look at a man who likes knitting and keeping his nails manicured and tell him that he is less of a man than you are because of his likes, dislikes, and outward appearance.

The level of masculinity you express does not affect how much of a man you are.

The level of femininity you express does not affect how much of a woman you are.

But the gender binary tells you that it does, and it attempts to dictate what you can and cannot do as well as what you are and are not allowed to enjoy based purely on the contents of your trousers.

Gender is a spectrum. Gender roles based on the contents of your trousers are arbitrary and false. The gender binary is a lie.